tessellations
by exploding-empires
Summary: You'll follow me back with the sun in your eyes. -— Victoire/OC - for Amy


tessellations  
You'll follow me back with the sun in your eyes. -— Victoire/OC

* * *

**notes:** This is a non-magical AU, and Archie Zabini is an OC of mine, the son of Blaise and Parvati.

**disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_, which is JK Rowling's, _Bedshaped,_ which is Keane's, or anything else that you recognise.

**warning:** This includes some profane language and is rated M for sexual content. If this is offensive/triggering to you, please don't read. Also, there are a lot of references to British things (slang, shops, etc.), so you can always PM me if you need a pointer as to what things mean.

**dedication:** I was going to write a Lily/Teddy, but I couldn't get anything going for that. This is for **Amy** (Amy is Rockin), because I love her and she's absolutely fantabulous. Also she loves Blaise/Parvati, so I thought she might like Archie. Love you, Amy, and I hope you like this! :)

* * *

_you'll follow me back with the sun in your eyes  
__bedshaped, and legs of stone  
_– **BEDSHAPED, keane**

* * *

You are the kind of boy who plays with fire – who revels in lightning storms and asbestos and tear gas – you are the poster boy for the dangerous part of London, the part that most people like to pretend doesn't exist. You are exactly the kind of boy Victoire Weasley likes to have.

Because she – well, she is this fantastical creature with blonde hair and brown eyes (always a striking combination, that; you know this, because it's rare in the council estates on the edge of London, where you come from) and the kind of smile that makes you think she might possibly be magical.

In all fairness, she should've been brought up proper classy, Vic, because she's got a fancy French name and the looks of an aristocrat. But she wasn't, she was brought up a Weasley in this dodgy area where, honest to God, most people haven't a positive attribute to their name.

You've heard that in some parts of England – posh parts, Surrey and the like – they tell children that everybody has a talent. They'd probably be astonished if they knew that here, in Newham, that isn't even slightly true. Victoire's talent is being pretty (does that count?), but you don't have one. If asked, you'd probably say jokingly that your talents lie in the bedroom and the backstreets, but that's the truth. That's all you've got, Zabini.

ϟ

It starts when she's fifteen and you buy a zinger burger from her.

"Didn't have you down as the KFC type," you tease, because this is Victoire Weasley and she's meant to be dead picky. A slut, of course – who isn't, around here? – who lives by fashion, spends what little money she has on clothes and makeup and cigarettes, and is the fittest bird around.

She scowls. "Everyone needs a job, _Zabini_." Your name is spat out malevolently, almost an afterthought (_oh yeah, he has a stupid name, doesn't he?_).

"It's Italian," you beam, amicably.

"Lovely," she says. "Ever been?"

"Like we have the money for that," you scoff.

ϟ

Two hours later, she's got off her shift and you're behind the building smoking. You're not quite sure what's in the fag – it's some cheap tobacco that's more than likely part weed – but you'll smoke anything.

"Got a light?" she says, walking up towards you. You chuck your lighter, a fluorescent green thing you got in Poundland, and she catches it without hesitation.

For a few seconds you just stand against the wall, breathing in what will almost certainly be the death of you.

"Why'd you stick around so long?" she asks. You consider for a second, because it's a perfectly valid question that you're not quite sure of the answer to yourself.

"You're a pretty girl, Victoire."

"I'm not here for sex, Zabini."

"Archie, please," you tell her, "and I'm not here for that either. I'm just a good old-fashioned lover boy."

"Queen," she says. You smile.

She looks cold, so you take off your hoodie and hold it out. She takes it without question, although she looks vaguely (pretending she doesn't care) where it's from, and looks slightly – almost imperceptibly – disappointed when she sees the Primark label. Ever the brand queen, poor little poverty-stricken Victoire.

Of course, she looks better in it than anyone else could. No matter that it's a boys' fit, or far too big, it hangs perfectly on Victoire Weasley's petite frame.

She's taken off her red polo shirt with the name tag on it (_Hi, I'm Vicky_, because Victoire didn't fit, and probably nobody in Newham could pronounce it anyway), and she's just wearing a black vest top with spaghetti straps. You can see the black elastic of her bra and you're struck again by how small her frame is. Probably size six (you're not quite sure why you understand women's clothes sizes).

"Not like your uniform, Vicky?"

"I hate it when people call me that," she says, vehemently.

"Sorry."

"It's okay, you didn't know."

That disappoints you slightly. You _want_ her to be fiery and angry and passionate. She shouldn't fade into the background like any other girl around here, a hopeless shade of grey, she should sparkle. (It's a hopeless fantasy, but you've built up Victoire Weasley and you can't bear the thought of the real thing not matching up.)

The thing is, Victoire is just like any other girl in this town of misfits and sluts and teenagers who aren't going anywhere in life. She's saving her money for a pair of Vans, she overdoes the eyeliner to get likes on her profile picture, and she wears a Wonderbra because she hasn't got all that much to show off.

But you want her desperately.

ϟ

It's back to school on Monday. You have Chemistry first thing, and your mate Alex said he knew a guy who sold cheap cigarettes, so you're heading into the town centre.

A teacher told you once that if you stuck around for lessons, you could do something with your life. You laughed and shrugged it off. You're sixteen, most likely high, and you're from _here_, of all places. To everyone, you acted as though what Mr. Thorne had said meant nothing to you.

But in a way, you sort of wonder if he was right.

ϟ

"You alright, mate?" Alex says. You look up from the pavement. (You're thinking about Victoire.)

"Yeah," you say, vaguely. You nearly lie and say you're thinking about what you're getting for lunch, but you can't be arsed to think out the details. You both know you're just getting the cheapest variant of the Subway meal deal.

You walk for a bit, Alex making jokes about your Maths teacher every so often – fair dos, the bloke could at least _try_ a diet.

Silence falls.

"Tell you who's right fit," you say. You try and keep your tone nonchalant. Just another dudes' talk, nothing serious.

"Who?"

"Victoire Weasley."

"Don't she work down KFC?" Alex asks. You nod. He considers for a moment, probably trying to recall which one exactly she is. The whole Weasley-Potter family goes to your school, and there are a lot of them. "She's alright, she is."

You nod again. You're not sure why you brought Victoire up.

She would've entered the conversation at some point anyway, you know. You never could shut up about girls you fancied, and you're really beginning to think you like Victoire.

So, of course, it's typical that just as Alex makes a crude comment about her, Victoire Weasley appears. She's leaning against a wall, smoking, all casual. Probably thinks she's really cool. (She does look it, to be fair.)

"You go and find that bloke with the fags, eh, Alex?" you say, cocking your eyebrow in a way you hope says, _dude, piss off, I'm in with a chance here_. He shoots you a cheeky grin and saunters off, his hands in his regulation school trousers.

"What's up?" she drawls, in a cloud of smoke.

"Not much," you say, fishing a piece of gum out of your pocket. "And you, Weasley?"

She winces. "I hate my surname."

"Jeez, somebody's picky," you say. "You don't like anything but plain Victoire, do you?"

She shakes her head. Her hair is an adorable baby blonde, with wisps going everywhere and floating out of her top knot. She could be a model, you think, although you don't know anything about modelling.

"What do you have about me?" she asks, after a few minutes of you standing, side by side.

"I've told you before," you say, "you're a very pretty girl."

"And what makes you think I'm interested?"

"I can make you come around," you say.

"Oh, I'm not so sure," she says. You look at her, very seriously, into her brown eyes. They are, as always, black-lined, and striking. She has perfect skin, and very shiny lips. You press yours to them, close your eyes, and hope for the best.

You break apart after a few seconds. She looks at you, her eyes wide and slightly biting her lip.

"It's not often I get proven wrong, Archie," she says, softly.

ϟ

You go back to school for English, because it's a complete doss. Victoire is in your class, and every so often she looks over at you and smiles. It gives you a little thing to be happy about, which is a rare commodity in your grubby comprehensive secondary school.

"Alex, Victoire and Archie, can I talk to you at the end of the lesson?" says Miss Woodburn, after she's done the register. Alex looks at you as if to say, _get ready for the lecture._ Victoire looks like she couldn't care less.

Every so often, your mind wanders to Miss Woodburn's lecture. You get told this most weeks – you know exactly what she'll say. _You should have more respect for your education. This is free, you're wasting a space in this school that could've been taken by somebody who would've worked hard. You could do well if you tried, Zabini._ You don't know why they cling to this lie.

You realise that they'll probably assume something went on with either you or Alex and Victoire. At this thought, you're vaguely proud. (Because it did. Something went on with you and Victoire and it's pounding through your head, telling you that this isn't just getting off with a fit girl, it's something real that you can't stop thinking about and Victoire Victoire Victoire.)

Fifteen minutes pass, and you've written about four more words. You just can't seem to get any coherency in your head. Finally, the bell sounds and you just sit there, tapping your fingers on the desk as everyone around you packs their stuff into their bags. One girl gives you a funny look. She's a right swot, that one.

You can't really hear anything properly, it's all muffled and unimportant because what's going on in your head is so confusing and you just don't have the capacity to concentrate with blonde hair and brown eyes and black elastic and Victoire going around and around in your mind.

"Archie, are you okay?" Miss Woodburn asks. Alex and Victoire have moved over to her desk.

"What? Oh, right," you say. "I—yeah, I've just got a headache, miss."

She nods, somewhat sceptically, and you shake your head – try and clear it a bit – and walk over to join the other two.

"Why weren't you three in lessons today in periods one and two?" Miss Woodburn asks, putting on her stern look.

"We were in town, miss," Victoire answers, immediately and clearly. You're surprised. Normally, it's a few moments before anyone has the guts to mumble some excuse. (Normally, these talks don't include you and Victoire together.)

"Why?"

"Didn't feel like Chemistry," Alex murmurs.

"That's just not good enough," the teacher sighs. "This happens too often, especially you, boys."

She lets her words hang in the air for a few seconds. You don't quite know how you're supposed to respond.

"Don't you care? This school is a _good school_, and it's offering you a wide diversity of knowledge, not to mention qualifications that help you get somewhere in life, for absolutely nothing. And let me tell you something – if you don't take your education seriously, and I know this is harsh, but it's true, you won't get anywhere in the society we live in. If you don't have good GCSEs and A-levels, where do you think you're going to end up?" Nobody replies. "Huh?"

"Nowhere good, miss," you say, quietly.

"Exactly, Zabini. I will be contacting all of your parents to inform them of the lack of respect with which you are treating your education, and if I have to speak to any of you again about this, I will seriously take it up with the headmaster as a matter for exclusion."

Your heart is pounding in your chest. This talk never gets easier. You almost want to try, now, but the thing is … well, a nerd isn't going to get Victoire Weasley, is he?

ϟ

Your breath is catching, your pulse is racing, she is tracing patterns on your goosebumpy arms.

"I need you," you breathe, quickly and quietly, but she's heard.

"I want you," she replies, and her lips are everywhere and you're the happiest you can remember being.

You always end up outside her work, and you're very aware that you could get her fired if her boss sees you together. Because you cannot be in each other's presence and not attached – one set of lips finding another within the first few seconds of your bodies being close enough.

There is no romanticism. You do not go out on dates. You do not hold hands. You do not talk, you do not have a song. You are purely Archie and Victoire and sex.

ϟ

She texts you most of the time, but you know where to go even when she doesn't. If you've had school, she'll say, _John Lewis toilets_ – nothing else, no punctuation or kisses or anything – and if you haven't, it's, _KFC_.

You know how to get into the girls' toilets without being seen, now. Victoire goes in first, and if there's nobody inside, she comes straight back out. If there are people, she comes back out when the coast is clear. You check that nobody is watching, and you slip in unseen, quick as a fox.

You lock yourselves in a cubicle and she kisses you, slowly, hard. You press closer and move together, working quickly, taking each other's clothes away expertly. You've both had practice.

You stand together. You have never once broken apart, but now you stop and look at each other, and you whisper, "I'm so in love with you."

ϟ

Soon enough, Victoire's birthday comes around, and as badass as you think you are, you're inwardly glad that what you're doing is finally legal.

You buy her a pair of black Vans because she's wanted some for ages and you had to save up for four weeks' worth of paper round money. You considered navy, but it would clash with her eyeliner.

ϟ

You think, in your heart, that Victoire Weasley might be perfect. She is the most beautiful girl you know, and she's chosen you. You can't think of anything else you could possibly want. You don't need a nice personality, or intelligence, or anything trivial and unimportant like that. You need _her_. The warmth of a female body lying next to you; the knowing smile of two lovestruck teenagers with a secret in the middle of a lesson. Knowing that you have what so many want.

To be honest, anyone could work it out if they looked. Not necessarily from the glances or walking home together – that could easily just be you trying to flirt. No, probably from the likes on each other's pictures, from the sudden shortage of condoms in the machine in the boys' toilets at school.

But the dead cert is when Victoire tells you that she's missed her period.

ϟ

"I have never been late in my life," she says, trembling. _Well, no,_ you think, bitterly, _you're perfect, aren't you?_ "Archie, what am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," you whisper. You're in your bedroom together, sitting next to each other on your bed. Your parents have probably guessed that you two are together, from the number of times Victoire's been round with that piece of Chemistry homework, and your hatred of Chemistry. "I—I honestly have no idea."

She looks ready to crack. Her finger is positioned directly under her eye, as though to stop the flow of any tears. You look at her and see the most beauty you have ever been able to comprehend.

"Look at me, Victoire," you say, seriously. She looks at you, and you take her face in your hands. "No matter what is going on, or what decision you make about anything, I will _always_ support you as much as I can, and I will never, ever leave you. Okay?"

She nods, and lets a black tear fall. You wipe it away and press a gentle kiss to her lips.

"I love you," she whispers, her voice faltering through the tears. It's the first time she's ever said that to you.

You place a hand on her stomach.

"Victoire Weasley," you say, "if our baby is in here, are you going to keep it?"

And when she nods, that is when your life truly begins.

ϟ

You get seven Bs, two As and two Cs on your GCSEs. It's not anything to boost the school's status on the exam tables, or anything, but it's a lot better than your results. You should hope so. You revised for hours. (For the baby, always for the baby.)

ϟ

On the fourth of October, Victoire gives you a baby girl. You name her Amelie, and she takes your surname.

On the fourth of October the next year, you marry Victoire in a shower of confetti butterflies and champagne and in a pretty church with flowers everywhere. You wear a suit and she wears a white wedding dress and she looks the prettiest you've ever seen her.

You both know that underneath the dress, she's wearing black Vans that you saved four weeks' worth of paper round money for.

* * *

**notes:** I'm not entirely happy with the ending, but I liked the passage where Victoire got pregnant and then I couldn't leave it hanging and then I wanted them to have a happy ending and then I couldn't write it well but ugh I don't care. This took me about two weeks to write, which is _aaages_ for me (I'm a pretty quick writer, ngl). I really hope everyone liked it, especially Amy, of course! It was really fun to write, so :) please leave a review, and please do not favourite without reviewing, thank you.


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